The Story of You Written in Red
by Senzafine
Summary: A chance meeting begins the sprial that will create the man and the monster named Vincent Valentine [the story of Vincent re-worked and re-invented]. take the rating seriously, this fic isn't for kiddies.
1. Prologue: Shattered

Author's Notes: Vincent's life story, with tie-ins to the game. The subject of child abuse, substance use, swearing, graphic gore and other grim details give the story's rating. Not sure if I'll continue this fic, but what can I say? Vincent fascinates me. ~~  
  
The Story of You [Written in Red]  
  
Prologue: Shattered   
  
The town spoke of possession, by a Demon, on the night the child was born. How did the young mother, with her raven black hair, knew of the tree that fell before the birthing began? The rain fell that night, like ice, sending asunder the last fragile bloosoms of fall. The October sky was lit with purple thuder, the roaring of thuder, drums hearlding the arrival of a new king, a dark king.  
  
They should have never let the woman in, this woman from nowhere, with her raven black hair and eyes lit like fire. But the cold made her cheeks flare like a girl's, an innocent blush that made her seem prefect, fragile, unable to feeel anything but joy. Her hands were empty, but her mind was not. She took up residence in the halls of the richest family in town, and there, she found her own despair.  
  
She ate a seed, taken from the forbidden fruit, that's what everyone said. Everyone asked her, whose baby was it? Who was the father? But the girl said nothing, she looked even more like a child with her wide eyes that refused to cry, though tears glistened at her eyes. The other maids and servants kicked at her, taunted her, but she refused to tell.   
  
And now, tonight, her mouth opens only to scream again and again. The baby, the cursed baby that should have never born, must have given the girl hell to go though, a gleeful joyous thought to the snickering midwife and her attendants. The girl should have just told who the father was. Now the baby will never know.  
  
But what haterd they had for the girl faded when the baby was finally born. And the girl's mouth closed in on her secret, sealing her fate and the baby's with her last fading breath. The wind outside couldn't stop blowing and the rain turned into snow. Highly unusal for this time of the year, as unusal as the pale skin of the baby, who did not utter a cry even as he was pulled from his dead mother's arms.  
  
This story is muttered over and over again, much to the disgust of modern daughters and children of the age. See the punishment, the pain. Whatever happened to the baby, no one asks, not anymore. You see, this is the price of the girl's undying loyalty to a child that never should have been born. 


	2. The Child

"Fuck."  
  
Blood was warm.  
  
"You fucking idiot."  
  
The touch of knife against skin was cool, until it pierced skin and drew warm blood.  
  
"You fucking idiot."  
  
He knew this because his little corner was filled with secrets he could not tell. It was more then a corner, it was a closet with his blankets, clothes and a pillow. It had a door, but even that was not enough to cover him from the darkness and lies that surrounded him. Each night, he watched the arrival of men, dressed in blue suits and dark glasses, go to Mara's room with cuts that needed to be bandaged and cleaned. Who these men were, he never asked. He learned to stop asking questions long before.  
  
"Vincent!"  
  
He hated his name. He hated his black hair and blue eyes, just so pretty, a face that never showed the trembling of his heart or the tears raging in his mind. Because he never showed them, these emotions that tore at his mind and made his ears ring with begging necessity -  
  
"VINCENT!"  
  
He wasn't so sure if he knew what he was feeling was real. But pain and blood was real.  
  
Mara was the only one in this house who did not glare at him with hatred. She spoke tough, her mouth forever yelling and shouting out his name. But it did not matter, her hands never touched him. That was enough for him.  
  
"Coming."  
  
He dropped the knife he grasped between his fingers and pulled on his shirt. Pausing to let out a breath he didn't know he was holding, he opened the door with the back of his hand while the other wiped the drops of blood from his palm against the wall of his room. This was his reality.  
  
Chapter One: The Child  
  
When darkness fell, the valley seemed like an abyss. The lights of the city seemed as if part of a different world, a world that did not belong in such darkness. The people never ventured outside when darkness fell, because who knew what hatred would meet them outside in the streets? People were killed by others who didn't give a damn, money was hard to find, even more difficult to take away. Gangs ruled the corners, and women sold their bodies - it became a habit to stop praying and start carrying a gun.  
  
This wasn't a place for children. The playground was littered with glass shards, ripped condoms and empty bullet cases - and this was the place that he ran to whenever life within the house was too much for him to handle. But tonight, when the shadows were even darker because of the full moon, he did not run as usual to his hiding spot beneath the slide. No, he had an errand to run for Mara.  
  
In his hands, he held a package wrapped in brown paper, crisscrossed with strings and covered in tape. It was small, barely the width of his arm, and very light. He would have no trouble carrying it to Sothen St., 3rd Warehouse to the left. It was cold, a writhing breeze that shook his slender frame and bit his nose, ears and lips. He knew that if he ran, the shadows that watched him from afar would chase after him, but he was so cold.   
  
He stood in front of the house for just one minute, warming up his hands with his breath, thinking. Who would give him a ride so late at night?  
  
He didn't want to go and ask, but he never really liked the night anyway. He wouldn't get any sleep if he came back home late without delivering the package, nor would he be left alone.   
  
Vincent grasped the package with his small hands and started walking to the Sugar District, his eyes carefully following the shadows that haunted each street corner. Nothing was safe in this town.  
  
===  
  
Vincent sat in a velvet chair, the tips of his feet barely touching the carpeted floor. He kept his eyes peeled forward, at the wall hung with nude pictures and flashing neon lights. Men and women walked by, heavy with alcohol or with lust, glazing half heatedly at the pretty, but bruised, child. His fingers were blue, and his nose was red, a manifestation of the few minutes he spent walking in such a bitter cold, but no one cared to ask if he wanted a drink - of which the House had plenty of - or a blanket - which each room in the House had.   
  
Vincent hated it here. But he had to wait, because the woman with the red nails and silver hair told him to.   
  
He started to sing a song he had in his mind, but never learned, to amuse himself as the customers wove themselves in and out of the lobby to their rooms, supported by half clad men and women. Vincent knew a few of these prostitutes - most of them were servants like him, who ran away only to end up here. All those who ran away either became a part of this House, or was killed.   
  
--- But could death really be that bad? ---  
  
"Vinny! My child! Love of my heart!"  
  
Vincent looked up in time to see the glimmer of a gold cross catching the fluorescent light before he was smothered by oiled skin. Orion smelled like coconuts, a warm fruity smell that Vincent loved with all his heart.  
  
"Give me a kiss, my boy."  
  
Orion held Vincent's chin with his ringed fingers and kissed the boy's open mouth gently. Orion was the most beautiful thing that Vincent ever saw, all gold and smooth skin, straw hair that felt like waves of velvet against Vincent's own roughed skin. Orion was once too a servant like Vincent, but he became the object of fancy and fantasy. Orion was rich, Orion was in high demand from men and women alike. Orion was everything Vincent feared he would become. It made Vincent sad, in a dream like sort of way. If this was his future, at least he could die beautiful like Orion.  
  
"What do you have there, Vinny?"  
  
Orion's eyes were like liquid ink, deep and dark, holding a light that Vincent never understood. He squirmed away from Orion's glance and touch, drawing in his legs and arms around the package.  
  
"Can you give me a ride? To Soothen St?"  
  
"What are you doing there, Vinny?"  
  
"I might die if I walk there. I don't want to die.   
Yet."  
  
The way he said yet was like a slap of mockery. -- You want to die, don't you? -- The voices in his head started to laugh, a laugh like Orion's own. The lithe man dropped onto his knees, wrapping up the child in his arms.  
  
"Oh, Vinny boy. They'll throw you away when they're done with you. Get out while you can."  
  
And when Vincent said nothing, Orion laughed again and kissed the boy's forehead.  
  
"Fuck you to hell, Vinny boy. You know too don't you?"  
  
"Fuck you and me to hell, Vinny boy."  
  
===  
  
The car smelled like oils, foreign and sultry oils that sent Vincent's mind to a different place. The radio was playing a soft love song, a song that Orion sang softly. The driver was a boyfriend of Orion's, one of the few who did not look at Vincent as if he was just another body to defile, another toy to claim.  
  
--- Everything would look prettier, if it snowed. ---  
  
But even Vincent's little wish would mean nothing because it never snowed here. Only once, when he was born, but Orion and Mara told him that story so many times, he wasn't sure if it was a real story anymore, and not just a made up fairy tale to make him fall asleep.  
  
The streets seemed it was made by the same hand, unwilling to have even one different change to them, just like everyone's life story. He pressed his bare hand against the cold glass, watching the warmth of his body make a print against tinted glass. He breathed and a river of mist cut though the darkened glass. One finger started tracing designs, interlocking circles to amuse himself as the car rode swiftly though the waning night.  
  
-- Was this how it felt? To wander into this city, and believing that everything will turn out okay? --  
  
Vincent watched Orion. His face was sunken, but even then, he looked beautiful. The secret Orion held was too much for Vincent to believe in. Orion was dying.   
  
--- You were so wrong, Mommy. ---  
  
===  
  
"Be good, Vinny"  
  
The glare of the car's headlights made his eyes close. It was too dark for light of any kind. He heard Orion's gentle laugh and he squirmed, thinking what Orion had to do to have such an easy laugh. No one heard Vincent's laugh before, except for the laughter in his head, but that didn't count. The fog from the mountains and the machines that worked endlessly crept in around Vincent's slender body, cloaking him with misty acceptance. He hated the night, but out here, he felt almost alive. the wind bit into his open wounds, making his blood rush to his head. A slight ringing sound was heard in his ears, as if someone was talking about him, someone he couldn't hear.  
  
--- Out with you, where are you hiding? ---  
  
== Hello, little one. ==  
  
Vincent looked up, and saw slender arms reaching down to embrace him with a touch as gentle as that of the fog, and as cold. Large sea blue eyes stared down at him, eyes filled with a light reminiscent of Orion's own. On her fingers was the mark of interlocking circles, the same pattern that he drew on the window. Her hair shone silver, real silver, like diamonds. She didn't look like anyone Vincent knew, with her long legs and catlike body. That was why Vincent trusted only her.  
  
--- Why didn't you come sooner? ---  
  
=== You should have called me sooner, then. ===  
  
The fairy kissed him, never letting the little child out of her embrace. Vincent felt a gentle soothing wave washed over his trembling body, and felt a cold hand pressed against his hot head. Everything felt like a dream. It always felt this way when Mab was with him.  
  
--- I want to sleep. ---  
  
=== No, not yet. Not yet, my dear. ===  
  
--- I want to go away, never to come back. ---  
  
=== You can, if you want, but where will you go? ===  
  
--- Anywhere but here. To find my mom. --  
  
=== She wouldn't be found. ===  
  
--- I know. I want to follow her. ---  
  
=== Come, little one. Be strong. We will walk together. ===  
  
====  
  
Vincent pushed against the warehouse's door, and walked into a hell of raging red light. Someone grabbed him roughly by the neck, making Mab scowl at the offending man. A wind drifted in, sending astray bits of paper and empty soda cans. Vincent wasn't afraid. He kept his hand steady, keeping the package against his jutting hip. The warehouse was hot, and the change of cold air to hot made Vincent sweat, tiny beads of sweat that hugged the side of his face.  
  
"Package for..."  
  
His voice failed him and he coughed to clear it. There was nothing to fear. Mab was with him.   
  
"Tseng, of Shinra Inc."  
  
"Let him go, you fucker. He's just a kid."  
  
Vincent's assailant dropped him, and as his feet slapped the warehouse's concrete floor, Vincent managed to nod yes. Mab shook her head, but with one last caress to his cheek, she disappear in a cloud of rose colored smoke. It might hurt her to know, but Vincent didn't need Mab as much as Mab needed him, It broke his heart, almost, to realize that his childish naivete was dying so fast.   
  
"Are you Tseng?"  
  
===  
  
Too many hard nights. Too many hours spent drinking and fucking women off the streets. Occasionally, he spent the nights in care of the male prostitutes, bringing with him his secretary, to watch someone else get fucked. Because of this, Tseng saw very little that made him feel a wave of surprise. But the sight of the child messenger made his eyes open with a slight shock.  
  
The child was shockingly white, beyond pale, making his dark stormy eyes appear too bright, too wise and too fierce. Slender hands wrapped themselves around jutting shoulders, in a gesture that made his youth that much obvious. But the expression ion the child's face, one that spoke nothing but accepted indifference, made Tseng realize how different the child was. Because he too had the same expression on his face, embedded into his soul and a part of his mind.  
  
"I am. Thank you."  
  
Tseng held out his hand to accept the package, which the child placed in his possession. He lightly stepped back, and the fluid grace of his moves recalled to Tseng's mind a bird. That child will grow up to be beautiful.   
  
"By the way, before you leave, would you like something to eat?"  
  
"No."  
  
Tseng shook his head, not understanding how such a slender, almost treelike figure would deny food. Surely, as a servant, the child got feed less and beaten more. That was the way it was with servants and masters, especially the master of the house that the child served. Tseng didn't feel pity for him, but rather, admiration that at such a young age, he already knew that nothing could change.  
  
"Before you go, what's your name."  
  
"I don't have one."  
  
Ah, so the child was a bastard as well. Tseng felt delicious amusement tickling against the side of his throat.   
  
"What do they call you, then?"  
  
"Vincent."  
  
Tseng smiled, reaching out to touch the child's face. He let him, his eyes closing as if Tseng's fingers burnt his skin. So smooth, so young. Tseng smiled again.  
  
"Well, then Vincent, I'll tell you what. If it gets to bad over there..."  
  
The child's eyes snapped open, hungrily, as if Tseng fed him something he couldn't deny nor ignore. Tseng's voice dropped, lower, almost to a purr as the child shook again.  
  
"You can always come here. We have a place for you."  
  
He smiled again, and the child was his.   
  
"I promise."  
  
===  
  
Vincent stood outside the house, being dropped off by Tseng's guards. The man was sweet, he was nice, nicer then Orion because Tseng never wanted to touch him. Could he trust Tseng? Vincent looked down at his hands, rubbed with lotion by Tseng's young teenage secretary, and the gentle smiling faces that surrounded him. But what was trust?  
  
"VINCENT! WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU?"  
  
He would never know.  
  
"I'm coming Mara." 


	3. The Sin

Note: This is HEAVILY filled with mature content. Read at own risk, sorry for long delay of update.  
  
He never knew what it meant to cry.  
  
However, late at night, his body would freeze.  
  
Everything would be cold.  
  
Everything tasted like blood, warm blood, a hot secret at the edge of his tongue, waiting to spill.  
  
Late at night, his legs would become stiff, as so his arms, and the cold winds that steeped though the crack in his door would feel gentle and warm, a light laughter sprinkled in a world of lies and darkness.  
  
Late at night, he didn't need his knife to crave his emptiness into the vastness of his skin, or the chiming of empty bottles striking concrete wall to lull him to sleep. Because, sometimes, at night, he felt, he knew, his mom was there.  
  
And that was enough for him.  
  
Chapter Two: The Sin  
  
Of all the chores Vincent had to do, the one he dreaded was cleaning up the Master's bedroom, Now, though slender and barely feed, Vincent actually enjoyed cleaning. He loved making dusty things shine again, and wiping the mirrors until his reflection could be seen, glistening with polish and elbow grease, a reflection undisturbed and pure. But when it came to cleaning his Master's bedroom, Vincent hated it. And he would  
  
[and he often did] trade whatever he could, with other servants so he could avoid the room with its double doors and huge floor to ceiling windows.   
  
But today, no one was free. Vincent had no idea what to do, even when Mara bared her teeth at him, filling his hands with mop and bucket. The day was cold, he felt a breeze left the corner of his shirt and steep into his bones as Mara turned back into the supply closet. The sounds of her rummaging through the stuffed closet sounded like bed sheets being ripped off a bed, and Vincent felt lightheaded. He didn't want to go back there, ever again.  
  
"Mara."  
  
His voice sounded like a stone pitched against glass, a scamper of sound rough against even his own ear. The woman didn't even look over her shoulder. Vincent squeezed the handle of the mop with his fist, so hard that his baby fingers turned red, as the cold winter wind continued to blow in from the cracked window.   
  
"Mara?"  
  
Just a bit louder, but no, Mara didn't even lift her head. A servant from the kitchen walked by, his hands loaded with a steaming dish, and knocked Vincent slightly to the side with a jut of his hip. Against the hallway's wall, Vincent could feel the cold that emitted from the window, and the sounds of yelping and cooking from the kitchen down the hall. Scents of food he never had, food he couldn't even name, drifted heaven-like towards his small body, the savory warmth wrapping around his body like Mab's embrace.   
  
"Mara! I don't want to clean Master's bedroom."  
  
There. He yelled.   
  
Her shoulders straightened up, rigid almost and she turned around to face him. Her face had no anger, nor any sadness, only an odd, closed scowl. Vincent instantly lowered his eyes, he couldn't stare at Mara's watery hazel eyes without feeling some sort of guilt. Mara barely spoke to anyone, only the men in suits like Tseng's. who came to her room with cuts to be bandaged, or the men in brightly color robes who made Mara's shoulders lower in defeat. The other servants didn't like Mara very much, Vincent suspected because she was taking care of him, and all the servants went out of their way to treat Vincent savagely, though he never knew why. Her eyes were always teary, as if she had tears she couldn't cry, and Vincent believed it was his fault - who else would make Mara cry but a little orphan, not even good enough to be given food - only crusts and leftovers that no one else wanted.  
  
But no matter what Mara said, he won't clean his Master's bedroom. Too much went on there that Vincent didn't want to remember. So no matter what Mara said, he wouldn't go.  
  
But Mara didn't say anything. Instead, she took him by the hand - the first time she ever touched him outside their shared room - and walked him down the hallway and into the little servant's bathroom. The dim lightbulb was not enough to hide the cracked floor, or the tub filled with a liquid that smelled like strong, bitter alcohol. The toilet overflowed with paper and cigarette buds and it smelled like human urine. Vincent took a deep breath and closed his mouth. He didn't want to breathe in anything, the smell always made him feel as if he was going to vomit. But Mara had no problem with the pungent smells. It was as if she couldn't smell them.   
  
"Vincent, he hurt you too didn't he?"  
  
Vincent opened his mouth to say something, but he resembled that he didn't want to breath and stood there as Mara let his little hand drop from her own. She took a step back, letting her hands clutch the side of her shirt. And before Vincent could close his eyes, she lifted her shirt and let the dirty blouse fall to the floor.   
  
"Look, Vincent."  
  
Above her left breast was a long jagged scar, not clean, like the scars Vincent gave himself with his knife, but rough, as if cut by glass or a mirror. Mara took a step closer to him, her body hardening with the cold that washed into the room, bruised with cold and the shame that danced in Mara's eyes. Her hands reached out to Vincent, but he took a step back . He never saw a naked woman before, and he could feel Mab's hands wrapping themselves around him. His imaginary goddess and Mara before him - who was real and who was not?   
  
"Vincent, look at me."  
  
Mara covered herself with her hands as she bent on one knee, her face cold and sad, a beautiful sadness that almost took Vincent's breath away. And the tears started to fall from Mara's face.  
  
"FUCKING! Look."  
  
Vincent had a dream like this once before, but he was the one crying. He didn't know why, but in that dream, even the light was sad. He didn't know how he knew, but the light was crying, leaving soft patches of almost there, but not quite, silvery wisps upon his bare arms. The tear of light - Vincent recalled this dream sharply in his mind, like the bitter taste of salt rubbed against a wound, as Mara lifted his hand and laid it against her scar. The beat of a heart made Vincent's eyes widen as Mara closed her own.  
  
"I am not as beautiful or as strong as your mother."  
  
- My mother? -  
  
"You will be just the same."  
  
And arms took the child to her, hugging his head to her bosom, as a mother should, as a mother would if she did not die. If she knew the face of a child who knew never to cry, never to smile, who she left behind in this empty world - would she hasten back to this reality to reclaim him? But Mara was so soft, and so warm, and Vincent let himself be lulled into a dream like state within Mara's arms. Fingers brushed against his hair and for the first time, Vincent felt warmth, a gentle warmth that spread from his heart all the way down to his feet. Oh, and how real and how sweet was her warmth and her tears.  
  
It was different how Mara held him, tenderly now, as if nothing could separate him from her touch. Her heart beat softly, as well it should be, or else, Vincent would know that this was only a dream. A dream far better then the darkness that took him, almost every night, shallowing whatever glimmer of light or joy the small child felt that day. Chilled hands and a deafening silence, that was the darkness that claimed him. It was Mara's touch that could save him. If only she would.  
  
"Will you be my mother?"  
  
Why? What would be accomplished now, those were the words, so real, what can be changed?  
  
That was what her eyes said as Vincent lifted his face to meet her own. Staring into the depths, he found no answers, just tears, hot as they fell against his upturned forehead, the drops of a blessing he should not receive. But how eagerly he licked his lips, waiting for the taste of a human love to enter into his cursed self.  
  
"What did he do to you, Vincent?"  
  
Her hand against his thinly clad back - was this how his mother would have touched him?- eased the trembling of his shoulders, the tremor that resounded throughout the whole stretch of his small body. The darkness that tore into him and bind him to tell his secrets to stones and cold sky reached for him now, cold hands covering his open mouth.   
  
- What did Master do to me? Didn't I do it to myself? -  
  
To be silent, like how he was that night when the snow fell in rivers down the window. If he cried that moment, he would be hurt, maybe killed. But was it worth all that silence? Nothing could break the seal upon his closed lips, even when pushed roughly back on Master's silk covered bed. The ripple of sheets and his clothes being torn off by seeking, crude hand, they sounded like the moans of the dead. He was silent, so quiet. If only he screamed, if he just said something, but his silence was like the thick locks of hair that Master seized with his fist, muttering with pleasure. His silence was as smooth and as steady as the skin that Master stroked, raw and young, Vincent was so young. He didn't know how to laugh or cry when Master's hands found what they seek and grunted that when he grew up, Vincent will be so beautiful, this wouldn't have to stay hidden.   
  
But Vincent was so young, and that was why Master touched him here and there, bit and nibbled him where it pleased Master the most, as his hands encircled, like steel rings, Vincent's own fleeting innocence. Something that he'll never touch nor find every again, as Master placed his weight on Vincent's small hips and the bed creaked and groaned under the heavy load. The sound of silence in Vincent's ears took everything away. He was floating above this pain, above this sin. Master said when Vincent grew up, in excited breaths as his lips bit itself raw into the nape of Vincent's neck, he will be Master's favorite toy. Because he's so beautiful, and how smooth was his skin, eternal youth.  
  
He did this himself, Master grunted as he lifted himself from Vincent's curled self, he won't have been tempting if Vincent's wasn't so goddamn pretty.  
  
Your ma, you got it from your ma.  
  
So goddamn pretty.  
  
To this, Vincent meet with silence, silence as heavy as the sounds of Master pulling on his clothes, and the door slamming shut, sealing Vincent's misery and pain. This was the beauty of his silence. He could float above it all, including this sin.  
  
"Did he hurt you, Vincent? Just tell the fucking truth."  
  
Mara's eyes, they along could be Vincent's mother. The light and love they held, yes, she should be spared any more grief. This will be dealt with. He will not always be the child that Master calls his own, raven haired toy. The silence, the safe silence that caged in his hatred and shame, will break, Mab will die and from her ashes, who shall be born?  
  
- I will. -  
  
"No."  
  
====  
  
- I should die. I'm a lair.   
  
It hurt me so bad, Mara. I'm still in pain.  
  
Master calls me his slave. That I'm lucky he's letting me live here. Mara, I'm scared.  
  
Maybe I'll never grow up and be  
  
Be the man that can kill him, make Master go away so you and me can live in this house  
  
Just like the stories   
  
of you and me and a mom that should have been.  
  
This silence will break. It has to, or else, I'll die. But I'll take you with me, Mara. I promise. I won't let Master hurt us anymore, one day. -  
  
"Mr. Tseng?"  
  
"You are?"  
  
"Can you make me.."  
  
"Make you, what, my child?"  
  
"Unsilence me, Mr. Tseng. Help me."  
  
"It'll cost you."  
  
"I have nothing. Nothing to live for, nothing to give."  
  
"Oh, that's our price."  
  
"Help me, Mr. Tseng. Please." 


End file.
